


The Sun Rising from the West

by silver_eagle



Series: Songs of the Dragons [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Team Dragonstone rise, come on guys it's 2020 don't like don't read is a thing you know, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22559581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_eagle/pseuds/silver_eagle
Summary: Elia Martel, daughter of Dorne, embarks on her journey to Dragonstone. With danger looming behind their backs, she must embrace her new role and navigate a strange new world with House Targaryen to ensure their mutual survival.
Series: Songs of the Dragons [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1357204
Comments: 31
Kudos: 48





	1. A Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia makes it to Dragonstone. Not all is as it seems.

A storm is brewing.

Despite the strong midnight winds whipping around them, Dragonstone’s dock bustles with activity as the passengers of  _ The Silver Star, _ flagship of House Dayne, begin to disembark. Standing at the deck of the ship with her sleeping son in her arms, Elia watches Ser Oswell - alive and well, despite the recent news - alight on a platform, his very existence stirring frenzied whispers among the dockhands that only increases as Ser Gerold joins them.

“It must be quite a sight for them, seeing dead men walking among the living,” Ser Arthur notes as he picks up Rhaenys in his arms. “Go on, Princess. I shall be right behind you.”

Steeling herself, Elia makes her way down the stairs, noting the scent of sulfur and smoke mingling with the sea breeze. The solid stone pier feels strange to her feet after spending  _ too much  _ time on ships. She gazes at the crowd as Arthur takes his place beside her.

“Mother, I’m scared,” Rhaenys whispers as her dark honey eyes gaze at the volcanic mountains and keep looming over them from a distance. “What if Grandfather is there?”

“No one will hurt you here anymore, sweetling. I won’t  _ allow _ it.” Elia promises, planting a kiss on her child’s forehead. “Besides, Grandfather is gone. He’s not coming back. You’ll be safe here.”

Safety is but an illusion for the Last Targaryens, she knows, but she won’t let anyone harm them. Not on her watch.

A small contingent of guardsmen approach their party, headed by a familiar gray-haired man - Ser Willem Darry, master-of-arms at the Red Keep. With wonder in his eyes, he kneels before Elia and her children, followed by the rest of his men.

“Welcome back to Dragonstone, Princess Elia.”

Despite the bittersweet memories the place still holds, Elia feels herself relax, grateful that the loyal retainer asked no questions. She inclines her head and smiles at him. “Rise, Ser Willem. It is a pleasure, indeed, to return despite the tragic circumstances. May you escort us to my goodmother? There is much for me to tell her.”

Ser Willem rises to his feet, beaming. “Of course, my Princess.”

He turns to his companions, barking orders. The guards take their place around Elia and the remaining Kingsguard, shushed by a look from Ser Willem himself. Tailed by the dockhands carrying their scant belongings, Elia’s group slowly heads through the empty fishing village - quiet at such a late hour - makes its way towards Dragonstone. They traverse a narrow, stony pass that leads them up the face of Dragonmont and past three curtain walls, all adorned with statues of fantastic creatures that serve as the battlements.

“After all these years, I still couldn’t get used to those twisted beasts up there,” Ser Arthur muses, following the Princess’ gaze.

“There are far worse monsters than those,” Elia notes him with a wry smile. “And some of them take the form of men.”

Her thoughts turn to Aerys as they march across the castle yard. As clear as the day it happened, she recalls the feel of her rotting teeth biting her soft skin, his unkempt hair scratching her face, and the sharp nails digging into her wrists. A whimper threatens to erupt from her mouth as she thinks of that dreadful night and how everyone felt helpless against that monster of a king.

Into the Stone Drum they walk - the main keep of Dragonstone. Strange rumbles can be heard from its walls as the wind outside picks up speed. Few servants scuttle around at this hour, and most of them steer clear at the sight of Ser Willem and his men.

Securing an audience with the Queen Mother only takes a moment, even at this hour. Even so, rain is already pouring in a thunderous roar when they make it to the royal family’s quarters.

Queen Rhaella greets them at the entrance to her solar, her silver hair hanging loosely around her face and past her shoulders. Months of living away from King Aerys has clearly done her favors - she looks happier and healthier than ever, her violet eyes brimming with joy. It is truly a sight to behold.

However, Elia is quick to take note of the fact that she’s clearly with child - something that her loose lilac nightgown does nothing to hide the swell of her belly.

“Elia, is it really you?” The Queen Mother’s eyes take in Elia and the children in wonder. Her gaze flits to the Kingsguard assembled behind the Princess and a smile truly breaks out on her face. Without any hesitation, she pulls her gooddaughter into a tight embrace. “Oh, thank the Seven! All the news we received confirmed your deaths.”

“There is more to it than it seems, Queen Mother,” Elia notes with a wry little smile. “There is much to talk about.”

“But of course. Ser Willem, please secure our quarters. I wish to talk to our guests privately.”

Elia turns to the Kingsguard. “Please accompany us, my good sers. I would feel better knowing that you are with us.”

It takes a while for them to settle down. The Kingsguard, despite Elia’s insistence, station themselves by the door, ready to strike down any threat that dares to disrupt them. Rhaella herself settles behind her desk with a drowsy Rhaenys on her lap while Elia sits in front of her, settling down with her sleeping son.

Thunder rumbles outside, but Aegon does not stir.

“Ser Jaime saved us, the night before King’s Landing fell. He snuck us out of the Red Keep, and we took a ship to Dorne.”

“Ser Jaime?” A look of wonder crosses Rhaella’s face. “So this must be why his father claimed him to be missing - or worse, dead.”

Elia nods grimly. “Lord Tywin must still be desperate to have his son back and yet I fear it will be in vain. Ser Jaime was  _ disgusted  _ when he heard of how the Lannisters slaughtered an innocent woman and her babes, just to hide the fact that his son clearly spirited us away from the keep.”

The mirth in Rhaella’s eyes vanish as she mulls over these words. “It wouldn’t be Tywin if he didn’t somehow find a way to ingratiate himself to the Usurper and save his golden son’s name at the same time. He has always been quite ruthless - and he knows you live. We must be careful, my dear.”

“I know, Queen Mother.” Elia bites her lip - a sign of weakness, she knows, but she trusts Rhaella with her life. “We heard the news of Lord Tywin’s subterfuge when we reached Sunspear, but we didn’t turn back. From there, we headed for Starfall, then the Tower of Joy. I did not wish to flee - not without Lyanna.”

At the mention of the Stark girl’s name, Rhaella turns sorrowful. “Poor, foolish Lyanna. I do not want to assume, but is word of her death true?”

“She had been weak when we found her. The Maester said her body was not ready to bear a child, let alone twins.”

“Twins?”

“Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. They have the Stark coloring, though they have Rhaegar’s eyes if you look too closely. Lord Stark was there when they were born. He promised his sister that they will be protected, so he offered to take them with him to the North.”

“And Ser Jaime accompanied them, did he not?”

Elia nods grimly. “He shall look after them - teach them what he can. And Lord Stark promised that the North will stand behind them when time comes.”

A sigh escapes Rhaella’s lips. “He had rallied behind the usurper. How can we trust him with Lyanna’s children? The future of House Targaryen?”

“He had his reasons for rebelling. Surely you must know that.” Lightning rumbles outside, nearly drowning out Elia’s words. “He is honorable and reasonable - that much I can tell. We have conversed, Queen Mother, and we have come to an understanding. Besides, the children are all that he has left of his beloved sister. I  _ know _ he will do what he believes is best for them.”

Disbelief is still etched on Rhaella’s face, despite Elia’s reassurance. “Will he do everything, even when it means betraying the Usurper, his closest friend?”

“They do not  _ always  _ see eye to eye. Please trust my judgement on Lord Stark - he will prove to be a worthy and capable ally.”

“And we have dire need of them. Very well, Elia. On your own head be it.”

Silence passes between the two women. They may not always agree on matters, but Elia knows they respect each other nevertheless.

“Now we must talk about our next step,” she presses on. “We cannot stay here forever. Lord Stannis was already ordered to build a fleet and attack us.”

Rhaella closes her eyes, briefly massaging her temples. The impending siege must be troubling her. “I’ve heard of  _ that _ . I still feel strong enough to sail, though I fear I might give birth while we are at sea.”

“At least you won’t be birthing the child while we are under siege.”

“That much is true. Building a fleet will not be so easy - that at least will buy us time. I want us to be prepared before we flee. A fortnight should be enough.”

Elia nods in agreement. Leaving immediately without a proper plan will not serve them well - not now when they  _ finally  _ have time to think and talk. “Then we shall help, Queen Mother.”

“I expected nothing less.” Rhaella smiles tiredly. “But enough talk for tonight. You are all exhausted and I, too, must rest.”

* * *

Despite her exhaustion from the long and arduous journey, sleep refuses to claim Elia. Not even the comfort of her old bed is enough to still her racing mind that whispered to her, over and over again, a tale she had often heard as a child.

_ In the days when the dragons of House Targaryen were more than just a sigil, the mighty beasts laid clutches upon clutches of eggs in Dragonstone. Many hatched, but even more did not. Those that remain, it was said, had gone up in flames when King Aegon, Fifth of his Name, perished in Summerhall. Many, however, believe that some had survived, untouched in the most secret hiding places, waiting to be found. _

Elia snorts, in spite of herself. Fanciful stories are still nothing more than stories, she knows. She doesn't even understand why she's thinking of the eggs now, when House Targaryen has been reduced to a tired dowager queen, a handful of children, and an unborn babe. Surely none of them can hatch the eggs, let alone tame and ride a dragon.

Besides, she had spent years in Dragonstone and found not even the shadow of a dragon egg. And yet...

A crow perches on the windowsill, taking shelter from the storm. It seems to affix her with its crimson gaze - steadfast and unnerving.

"Rise!" it seems to cry out in the voice of a man as it spreads its wings and opens its beak. "Rise!"

Unnerved, Elia turns away from it, choosing to lie on her side. She closes her eyes and struggles against the clarity of her mind until she  _ truly  _ falls asleep.

_ She begins to dream, finding herself lying right where she is. The crow is now standing at the foot of her bed, gazing at her with human eyes. "Rise, Elia Martell, rise and follow me." _

_ Elia gasps in horror as her dream self rises to her feet despite the protesting thoughts. Her throat constricts, stopping her from screaming or making any other sound as she eases a lit torch out of its sconce. Taking one step, then another, she follows the crow out of the room, vaguely aware of how a flap of the bird's wings is enough to open and shut the door. On and on they walk, past hallways and corridors, up and down flights of stairs, nimbly dodging the guards on duty. Elia loses track of time, as is often the case in dreams, intent only on finding a way to wake up or at least stop her dream self from walking. Her efforts are futile, however. She marches on, following the crow's flight.  _

_ She climbs up the Sea Dragon Tower, her footsteps echoing on the spiral stairs. Fortunately, none lives here but the Maester, Garwyle, who is nearly deaf from old age. She follows the crow through a small secret passage that she’s never seen before and a cramped corridor that leads to a small room. _

_ Oh. She knows that scent. One does not make it to King Aerys’ court without getting acquainted with Lord Varys’ smell. A frown forms on her face as she takes in the room. It’s neatly-kept but despite the scent, it’s clearly unused - it’s been months, if not years, since the Master of Whispers had last visited Dragonstone.  _

_ Strange. _

_ The crow settles atop the fireplace shaped like a dragon's gaping maw. "Come and see!" _

_ Frowning, Elia follows it, wondering what she should be seeing. Neither the rubies shaped like glaring eyes nor the iron grates made to look fangs are anything new. She stares and stares, frustration welling up within her. _

_ “What am I supposed to see?” she demands. _

_ “The dragon has three heads,” the crow whispers. “Come and see.” _

_ Elia glares at it before turning her attention back to the fireplace. She takes note of the unusually thick layer of ashes and half-burnt firewood. Whoever cleaned this room clearly neglected the fireplace. It looks thick enough to conceal something. _

_ Oh. _

_ She places her torch on a nearby sconce and crouches. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulls the grate away with a loud cough. Then, covering her nose with one hand, she uses the other to brush away the soot, revealing an iron panel at the bottom of the fireplace. She glances up at the crow which gazes right back at her with its disconcerting eyes. _

_ “They must rise from the ashes,” it croaks. _

_ A small latch glints on one corner of the panel. Elia immediately reaches out to undo it, opening a secret compartment right beneath the fireplace. Inside is an ornate wooden chest. For a moment, Elia ponders upon its weight. It clearly is too heavy for a princess to open, but things are often different in dreams. _

_ With a heave, she pulls the chest out of the compartment and through the opening of the fireplace itself. With a few swift flap of its wings, the crow lands atop the chest. Two pecks from its beak cause the lock to fall. _

_ “Three heads,” it cries out before it takes flight once more, circling Elia’s head. _

_ The princess sighs and turns back to the chest. She opens its lid and gasps at what lay within - three dragon eggs, fossilized by time. _

_ “The dragon must have three heads, but is there only one dragon?” _

_ After circling her for the last time, the raven flies through an open window. _

A falling sensation jolts Elia awake. She finds herself sprawled inside Lord Varys room as shafts of pale early morning sunlight seeps through the window. The mild stench of the Spider’s perfume lingers in the air, threatening to make her retch. Slowly, she picks herself up and takes stock of her surroundings, nearly jumping out of her skin as she gapes at the chest right in front of her. Inside are three eggs, just like in her dream - one as black as the late night sky set aflame by red whorls, another a deep green flecked with bronze, and the third a creamy white with gold veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia and Team Dragonstone are here! Sorry for the short break. I had to catch up with some real life matters.
> 
> I apologize for the shoddy writing in this chapter. I'm not exactly satisfied, but being out of practice made me feel quite rusty. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one. Theories, questions, and constructive criticisms are welcome. I'll still be keeping comments moderated to make sure that we keep this little space safe from harassment. And always remember the old fandom advice: don't like, don't read.


	2. The Long Voyage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Dragonstone finally sets sail. Not all is well.

“I know it sounds preposterous, Queen Mother, but that’s how I truly found them.”

Elia paces around the solar as Rhaella herself examines the eggs, reaching out with a delicate hand to touch their hardened surface. It had taken the princess quite a while to look for Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold to help her bring down the eggs without alerting the rest of the household, but they had succeeded and that is all that matters.

“A crow…” A frown creases Rhaella’s forehead as she regards her gooddaughter pensievely. “Quite strange, do you not think?”

“Almost as strange as the fact that Lord Varys was  _ most likely  _ hiding those eggs from us,” Elia points out.

“I know. We cannot question him now, I believe. But we shall have our answers in due time.”

_ In due time _ . The princess knows it is all they could hope for. “These eggs surely must cost a fortune, Queen Mother. We can buy our own army-”

A steely glint flashes in Rhaella’s eyes. “No. I will not hear of it. These eggs are House Targaryen’s legacy, not jewels to be bartered off. Besides…” She trails off briefly before shaking her head. “Oh Rhaegar, my sweet, foolish son.”

“Rhaegar…” Elia blinks away the bitterness and anger she still holds for her departed husband. “He always said that  _ a dragon must have three heads _ .”

“And so it shall, my dear.” Rhaella’s smile is fierce - worthy of the dragon that she truly is, beneath the silks she wears. Her gaze flickers toward the eggs as her smile grows. “We shall keep these eggs as they are for now. I’ll have them secured with the rest of the treasures that we’ll be taking with us. I know not where they came from, but I’ll not have them leave House Targaryen.”

A hundred questions threaten to spill from Elia’s mouth, along with the temptation to admonish her own goodmother. She knows, however, that doing so is  _ utter foolishness, _ even though selling the eggs would be the most practical choice.

It will be an argument for another day.

* * *

Despite their planning, it still takes them nearly three turns of the moon to prepare.

They depart from Dragonstone on a warm, clear night, aboard one of Lord Lucerys Velaryon’s unnamed ships. Ser Willem Darry, bold and true, has joined their group, unwilling to part ways with the last of his liegelords. With him are the most loyal guardsmen and servants of Dragonstone.

The sails bear no sigils, only stripes of green and crimson and orange. Slow and steady, they head north and east.

Though it is something she’s scarcely done since her childhood, Elia spends the quiet moments of her waking time praying. She prays for a safe journey, so they may make it to Essos alive and hale. She prays for good fortune, so they may find safe haven until they finish and enact their plans. She prays for peace, so that Lord Stark may reach Winterfell with Rhaegar and Lyanna’s children unhindered.

_ Prayer, _ her mother used to say after Father died,  _ is nothing but an illusion of hope _ . Elia used to believe her and yet here she is, with prayer as her constant companion. Hope has become a powerful armor against despair, a seed planted by Ser Jaime that is now growing more and more tangible with each passing day.

Still, despite the way it constantly kept her mind occupied, prayer was not the only thing she did.

Prince Viserys seems to while away his time doing only two things - weeping inconsolably or succumbing to fits of rage. Once, he had kicked Rhaenys, who had ran screaming to her mother while Rhaella berated her fuming son. The cacophony of voices was enough to make Aegon wail in distress.

Elia’s head had ached all night, even after the children had been shushed and put to sleep. Not even the glass of Arbor gold helped.

“Forgive Viserys, my dear,” Rhaella had whispered. “He is but a child.”

The unspoken fear in the Dowager Queen’s voice was evident.  _ He is but a child, but he might already be turning into his father’s son _ .

Now it is morning, and Elia is standing on the deck. Pentos, their next stop, is but a haze in the horizon, slowly growing clearer as they approach.

The ship rocks, ever so slightly, as the wind grows stronger.

Elia’s ears prick up at the sound of giggling children. She turns in time to watch Viserys chase Rhaenys up the deck, the little princess’ chubby legs straining to gain distance from her taller uncle. A smile quirks up on Elia’s face as her daughter wraps her arms around her waist.

“What brings you here?” she asks, her worries gone for the moment.

“We wanted to hear about Rhaegar,” Viserys quips in excitement. It’s the first time he’s smiled since they left Dragonstone. “Mother didn’t want us to  _ pester _ her - says she’s trying to put Aegon to sleep.”

Elia’s lips quirks up in wry amusement - her goodmother had been quite taken with her son, despite knowing how the boy was conceived.

Nevertheless, she takes both children’s hands and lead them down to her cabin. After much fussing, she settles both children down on the edge of the bed, handing them warm cups of watered-down tea.

Rhaenys makes a face and sets down her cup. “I don’t like it,” she declares.

In a clear attempt to impress his niece, Viserys downs his drink in one long swig. “Father called you a Dornish Whore, you know,” he tells Elia knowledgeably.

“What’s a whore?” Rhaenys asks as her mother bristles.

“I don’t know, but Father said it a lot-”

“Enough.” Elia massages her temples. “That  _ word  _ is not for children, you hear me?”

A mutinous look darkens Viserys’ face. “You’re no fun. Just like Mother.”

“No fun! No fun!” Rhaenys echoes with a giggle.

Elia massages her temples with a woebegone sigh. She remembers the jeers she had received in court, though she stayed loyal and strove to keep to one bed throughout her married life.  _ Dornish Whore _ . That’s all she’ll ever be to the lords she had to face.

She swallows down the old pain and faces the children. “Are we not here for stories about Rhaegar, my sweetlings?”

* * *

A storm begins to brew four days after they leave Pentos, where Ser Willem and some loyal men had briefly disembarked to purchase provisions. The clouds above them turn darker and darker with every passing hour, causing unrest among the crew.

Six days after they leave Pentos, the wind begins to pick up speed. The sailors struggle to steer the ship in the right direction.

The storm hits on the seventh day.

Their ship struggles to stay afloat against the violent waves that threaten to capsize them. Every able hand is on deck, trying to help the sailors in every way they can.

Elia and Rhaella stay together in the Queen Mother’s cabin, the children in their arms to keep them calm despite the turbulent weather. They offer prayers to the Seven - futile though it may be - to guide them to safety.

On the eighth day, Elia is awakened by frenzied knocks on her door. She does not answer it until she makes sure that her children are still sound asleep on the bed.

Ser Arthur greets her with a frenzied look in his eyes. “I-It’s the Queen Mother,” he stammers. “She’s about to give birth.”

_ “Seven Hells, _ ” Elia growls. She’s not supposed to be due - not until at least another moon turn and a half, when they have safely made it to Essos. This will complicate matters. “Stay with the children, please. I’ll see what I can do to help her.”

Without waiting for the knight’s reply, she dashes for Rhaella’s quarters, struggling to stay on her feet despite the constant rocking of the ship. Inside, Ser Gerold struggles to restrain Viserys, who has clearly succumbed to another fit of rage. Ser Oswell kneels beside Rhaella, murmuring words of encouragement as a pair of terrified servant girls strip the woman of her garments.

“Oh, we should have brought Maester Garwyle with us,” Rhaella laments in between labored breaths.

“What can he do? He’s too old to be of great help.” Elia pushes up her sleeves and joins the servants who are now fussing over her goodmother. “Besides, we have both birthed babes  _ more than once _ . Perhaps we can take care of this by ourselves.”

Rhaella arches her back as she screams, fingers clutching her soiled sheets. One of the servants - Alys, Elia remembers her name - rubs her swollen belly gently. “You must push the child out, Your Grace. That’s it, you can do it.”

Elia braces herself at the sight of blood, fighting back memories of Aerys’ claws digging into her flesh. She holds Rhaella’s hand like a lifeline while the servants slowly help her bring her child into the world. It is a long and tedious process - Viserys even falls asleep halfway through it, his rage forgotten at the sight of his mother’s pain.

All the while, the storm rages on outside, causing the ship to rock back and forth with every swell of the waves and gust of the wind.

Elia tightens her grip on the older woman’s hand. She colors her words with determination that she knows she truly doesn’t have. “We shall not die here, I know it. The gods must be testing us, surely, but all will be well, Queen Mother.”

Rhaella does not respond. All she can do is scream as she struggles to push out her child.

“I can see the head, Your Grace,” Alys pipes up with a smile. “That’s it. Just a little more.”

The Queen Mother fights on, the years of childbirth and miscarriages clearly taking their toll. She begins to whimper weakly as she labors on. “I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Elia growls. “You’ve done this before. You must be strong.”

With one, final scream, the child completely slips out as thunder peals outside. The little one cries and wails as the maids cut the cord and begin to wash the blood away.

“It is a girl,” Elia says as she wipes the sweat off her goodmother’s brow. “She seems strong enough.”

Rhaella smiles brightly, though her skin now burns from fever. May it not be an omen of worse things to come. Her violet eyes trail after the child, whose silver hair is being fervently cleaned. “She  _ must  _ be strong.”

“What will we name her?”

“She shall be Daenerys Stormborn.” Rhaella’s smile brightens as thunder roars yet again. “May she be as mighty as the wind and rain.”

Elia feels the gooseflesh rise on her skin.  _ Daenerys _ , like the Targaryen princess who married into House Martell to finish the feud between Dorne and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Wars were waged in the first Daenerys’ name -  _ just like with Lyanna _ , Elia thinks wryly.

“Daenerys Stormborn. It is a beautiful name,” she declares nevertheless.

Another of the servants - Marna - hands over the babe, now swaddled in a clean blanket. She whimpers as Rhaella takes her, the smile on the Queen’s face now as bright as the Dornish sun. “As beautiful as my daughter herself. I feel I am too weak to feed her.”

“Then I shall do it for you.” Elia holds her arms out, bracing herself.

“You are no wet nurse,” Rhaella admonishes her.

“We have  _ none _ but me. Let me do it, Queen Mother, so you may rest and regain your strength.”

For a moment, a mutinous look crosses the older woman’s face. It goes as quickly as it had come, though, replaced by a semblance of peace. “Very well. Take care of her, Elia, so I may look after her once I wake.”

Bowing her head, Elia bares her teat and takes the child from her mother’s arms. “I will.”

“Good.” Rhaella’s eyes droop close. Her smile returns, gentle and at ease. “I expect nothing less from you, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger. I'll address it as soon as possible.


	3. An Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Targaryens reach their destination

The cool Braavosi wind brushed against Elia’s face as she stepped foot on the Ragman’s Harbor, dressed in a simple blue gown. It wasn’t lavish enough to expose her true status and identity, but it was comfortable enough to move around.

She sets off alone with her chin held high, ignoring the stares of men hailing from all corners of the known world. The crowd of people milling around the docks are too busy to pay attention to the newcomer, but it’s not an excuse to tarry. Lifting the hems of her dress to keep it away from the salty mud, Elia makes way to the Drowned Town unannounced. Beggars, mummers, and whores alike milled around the edge of the harbor, interspersed with craftsmen and cooks, innkeepers and sail menders.

Taverns, inns, and brothels are scattered at the fringes of the area, entertaining all sorts of patrons. Elia glances at her companions, hesitating briefly as she pats the letter tucked in her dress. Though it has been a few moons since she had received Oberyn’s reply in Dragonstone, she hoped against hope that he  _ did  _ decide to stay in Braavos and wait for them.

Otherwise, they’ll have no choice but to make do with less  _ pleasant  _ options.

Her gaze flits between the signs, trying to remember what she knows of the area around the harbor. Again, her hand rests beside Oberyn’s letter as she tries to recall what he said about his temporary residence.

The lurid scent of incense fills her senses as she stops in front of the House of Seven Lamps - a fairly decent place that’s already bustling with activity despite the early hour. Trying her best not to gag from the  _ stench _ , she makes her way inside with as much dignity as she can muster.

No one in the crowd pays her any attention - at least for now. A lone foreign woman’s presence must be nothing new in a place that has seen and experienced  _ everything _ that the world must have to offer. To Elia, who does not  _ want  _ the attention, it is a blessing from the Seven. The only thing she cares for at this moment is knowing whether her brother finally moved on from Braavos. She prays that he has not.

Failing to spot him in the sizable crowd, she heads for the counter where a barkeep is busy conversing with a young, attractive maid. As the man notices Elia approaching, however, he slaps the poor girl’s backside and sends her scampering away. He clasps his fingers together as he gazes at the Dornish Princess with wiley eyes.

“How may I help you?” His voice is detestably silky, reminiscent of the  _ snakes _ that used to simper to Rhaegar and even Aerys.

With steel in her eyes, Elia musters her most charming of smiles. “I am looking for a man - I heard he and his lover are renting a room upstairs.”

“This tavern has seen many men from even the farthest reaches of the known world. I may need some help in jogging my memory.”

_ Detestable. _ Masking her annoyance, Elia slides a handful of Braavosi coins across the counter - a small portion from those that the Queen Rhaella and the Kingsguard had retrieved from Dragonstone’s treasury before they had fled. Her smile grows, turning icy and dangerous as she regards the barkeep.

“Perhaps this will help,” she croons.

The barkeep takes the coins after briefly examining them. “Tell me about this man.”

“He looks like  _ me _ . Perhaps that will be of help.”

“There was a man staying here who  _ might _ , indeed, look like you. This tavern houses so many people, however, and I’ll need some help in remembering.”

Gritting her teeth, Elia reaches for another handful of coins. A shadow falls over her before she can slide them across the counter, however, making her freeze in place.

“I’d stop that if I were you, Femerio.”

Though her face is as calm as ever, Elia lets relief wash over her at the sound of a familiar,  _ very welcome _ voice. She turns to the newcomer slowly, reminding herself that she  _ must  _ still conduct herself as a Princess of Houses Martell and Targaryen.

“It’s good to  _ finally  _ see you.” Her voice cooperates, to her relief.

The past few years, it seems, had been kind to her brother. He though still lithe and slender, he’s now a little fuller in the cheeks. Though his eyes - the viper’s eyes, they say - are as dangerous as ever, they burn with affectionate warmth as he gazes at her.

“So it’s true,” he says breathlessly. “You’re alive. I did not believe it at first, even after that letter you wrote me but-”

“Hush. It’s a stroke of luck, really.” She looks around the nearby crowd, and the barkeep - Femerio - who are all eyeing them. Leaning closer, she lowers her voice to make sure no one else will hear. “But not here. We must talk elsewhere.”

“I’d  _ love _ to invite you to my room upstairs, unless you have another place in mind.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Join me in our ship - we have much to discuss.”

* * *

It is already in the middle of the afternoon by the time the planning and plotting ends.

Elia is the first to step out of the ship. This time, little Aegon is in her arms, swaddled carefully to conceal his Valyrian hair. The child is alert and awake today, his indigo eyes wide and curious. Though he makes no noise, he constantly shifts to take in as much of the surroundings as he can.

Oberyn takes his place to his beloved sister’s left, hand in hand with Rhaenys. The girl has taken to her uncle in delight, happily clinging to him in the hopes that he’ll fulfill his promise to fill her ears with tales of whimsical adventures and dashing knights.

Ser Arthur himself flanks them, his pale hair dyed black to hide his identity. There’s no hiding his purple-gray eyes, however, but perhaps that remnant of possible Valyrian heritage is common enough not to merit unwanted questions. Though he carries Dawn in a plain scabbard, he wears no armor today.

The same goes for Ser Gerrold and Ser Oswell. Neither are clad in their Kingsguard armor, though they carry their swords and knives with them. Queen Rhaella stands between them, dressed in a muted gray dress. Her hair, dyed black, hangs loose around her thin face. Princess Daenerys slumbers in her arms, swaddled tightly like her half-brother to hide her pale tufts of hair.

To her left is Prince Viserys, dressed smartly in a simple cream tunic. His hair has been cut short by Oberyn himself and dyed black to hide his identity like the rest of his family. Though he had been more agreeable since his sister’s birth, the quick transformation left him looking sullen.

They don’t have to walk for long. At the edge of the docks, Oberyn hails a trio of boats that will take them directly to the area outside the Sealord’s Palace.

“This will be expensive,” the Martell prince whispers in his sister’s ear. “Pray that it will be worth it.”

“It will,” Elia assures him. “We must trust the Queen Mother.”

The trip takes them past canal after canal. As they move further away from the Ragman’s Harbor, east and north, past temples of all shapes and sizes that grow more and more intricate as they travel farther in. Elia recognizes a few of them from the books she has read - the infamous House of Black and White, the Sept Beyond the Sea, and the Temple of the Lord of Light, among others. In the distance, lies the Isle of the Gods.

Soon, the Long Canal merges with the Canal of Heroes, and they sail north and west. They head past the marbled visage of the famed Moonsingers’ Temple, its gleaming silver dome truly worthy of the praises that tales have showered upon it.

They sail on, past a row of deceased Sealords’ statues that line both sides of the canal. They pass beneath intricate bridges, each more impressive than the last. Elia tries to keep track of everything, hoping to commit them to memory, but there’s simply too much to see, and so little time. Perhaps, if the gods permit, she will have such an opportunity later on.

The boats steer slightly north and east again, passing into a smaller canal. They distance themselves from the Purple Harbor, where purple-painted Braavosi ships stand tall and proud, their intricate, similarly-dyed sails swaying with the breeze.

Soon, they stop not far from a thundering fountain.

“This is the Moon Pool,” Oberyn announces as they disembark. He turns to the Kingsguard with a smirk. “Twilight won’t be far, and bravos will be prowling. You must conduct yourselves accordingly if you wish to avoid fights-”

“They  _ must _ avoid fights,” Rhaella tells him sharply.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Oberyn’s smirk fades away as he turns back to the Kingsguard. “Do not touch your swords at all, not even your hilts. Avoid eye contact. Stay close to the ladies and the children.”

“Are these fools truly so capricious?” Ser Arthur asks. His hand briefly twitches, as if sorely tempted to grab his sword.

“Yes. They will fight even with little cause - some with none at all - so long as they see you with swords, which you  _ refused _ to part with.”

Ser Gerold shakes his head. “It would be more dangerous to go unarmed, my good prince.”

“Then you will do as my brother said,” Elia tells him, finishing the conversation.

As they pass the Moon Pool, they spot a few bravos in their bright finery though night had not truly fallen yet. The way their eyes flit to the Kingsguard’s swords fills Elia with a feeling of dread. This is not the kind of world she would willingly subject her children to, but their choices are truly limited at this point.

They walk north, past the Moon Pool and its dangerous swordsmen, and to the Sealord’s Palace itself. Though she had seen the grandest castles and keeps back home, Elia still can’t help but marvel at the sight of the gleaming towers and domes. Squinting, she makes out what seems to be a slowly turning thunderbolt made of gold, standing atop a graceful spire. She had never seen anything quite like it.

Oberyn approaches two of the guardsmen stationed at the palace entrance. He announces something in clumsy Braavosi - a bastard Valyrian dialect that Elia had never learned. The guards whisper among themselves - perhaps to discuss what they have said. Eventually, one of them nods and finally replies in his lilting tongue.

Rhaella smiles throughout the exchange. “Your brother should have asked me to talk to them instead. He speaks Braavosi like a  _ child _ .”

“You speak the language, Queen Mother?” Elia hopes she does not sound rude.

“Once you learn High Valyrian, it is easier to understand the rest.” Rhaella shakes her head. “I would have had you taught, if it were in my power. Rhaegar had neglected you  _ too much _ . Perhaps, soon, I shall teach you alongside the little ones.”

“It is something I will be looking forward to.”

Oberyn joins them with a proud grin on his face, accompanied by the guard - a slender, curly-haired young man with a sharp nose. “Syrio has agreed to accompany us to the Sealord.”

“Good.” Elia gives him a nod of congratulations.

Smiling, Rhaella claps her hands thrice. “Very well. You have done a good job, Prince Oberyn - though it would serve you to keep in mind that I can converse to the Braavosi myself in the future.”

Chastised, Oberyn flashes a sheepish smile. “Of course, Queen Mother. I did not wish to cause you any offense.”

With a final nod, Rhaella turns to address the guard, Syrio, who replies in kind. The young guard does not seem to trust them at all, but perhaps people are still curious about the Targaryens, even here in Braavos - the land built by escaped Valyrian slaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, sorry for the delay! Been a bit busy with the ongoing quarantine, which for some reason turned into a creative drain.


	4. A Thousand Eyes and One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Targaryens find a semblance of peace

Two moons after their audience with the Sealord, the little hovel that the ruler of Braavos had gifted the Targaryens is finally starting to form a semblance of home. It’s still not much — they brought very little from Dragonstone, and they did not wish to waste what coin remained on luxuries until they can secure more — but it’s  _ something _ . This will be a place where the children can remain children for now.

The scent of the sickly lemon tree by the window wafts into their tiny sitting room as Elia watches Viserys and Rhaenys chase each other around. Aegon giggles in her arms at the sound of their loud laughter.

Rhaella joins her, carrying a slumbering Daenerys. “Peaceful, is it not?” A wry smile touches her lips.

“Deceptively so,” Elia agrees.

“It’s all temporary, I know, but I would rather worry about raising the children. The throne can wait.”

“Then wait, it shall. Lord Stark and I have agreed upon the same thing.”

They lapse into companionable silence, broken only by the sound of Rhaenys screeching happily as she knocks Viserys off his feet. The prince flashes her a sullen look, but he’s finally wise enough not to say more on the matter.

“He has much of his father in him.” Rhaella’s voice is heavy with sorrow as her violet eyes follow her son across the room. “It worries me.”

“We must hope that he won’t follow his father’s path.” Though she shares the queen mother’s worries, Elia reaches out to pat the older woman’s hand. They cannot  _ wallow _ in worries of the future. There will be plenty of time for that later. “Perhaps our guidance can be of help.”

Sadness now darkens Rhaella’s gaze, making her look older — haunted. Elia knows that King Aerys’ atrocities will remain with the queen mother forever. “Hope is a fickle thing. I had pinned so much of it on Rhaegar and yet he turned out to be as mad as our forebears. His is different, but it’s madness all the same.”

“His obsession with prophecy did House Targaryen no good,” Elia laments. A spark of shame wells up in her. Despite everything, she had been complicit all the same. “I should have tried to stop him.”

“ _ Could _ you have?” Rhaella raises a silver brow. “When my son set his mind on something, not even I could have stood in the way.”

“It doesn’t mean that I won’t  _ try _ .”

The ghost of a smile graces the queen’s lips. “We could have made a queen out of you.”

Elia shakes her head. She had learned long ago not to dwell in the past. “Well, I won’t be queen now. But judging from Doran’s most recent letter, it seems that Cersei Lannister’s dream finally came true.”

“That fool of a girl…” Rhaella’s snort is unqueenly. The lords in her husband’s court would have mocked her for it, but they’re far from that life now. “House Lannister has completely secured its place in the Usurper’s court, then?”

“They have.” The memory of Lord Tywin’s cold, steely eyes makes Elia shudder. She’s not looking forward to crossing paths with him again, though it’s highly possible. “But it won’t last long.”

There is fire in Rhaella’s smirk. Despite the suffering she had endured, the dragon remained, biding its time — and now it has awakened. “Even the might of a lion is nothing against a dragon’s wrath.”

* * *

Braavosi nights are cold, especially for a Dornish woman like Elia. Since they had arrived, no amount of tossing and turning ever helped fall asleep faster. It will take time to get used to this new life, she knows, but tonight, something feels strange.

Every attempt to sleep ends with the temptation to gaze at the window. It’s a silly thought that she quickly stomps down, intent on getting proper rest. By sunrise, she knows that the children will most likely be causing a ruckus, and she wants to have her full strength to keep them away from strangling each other by then.

Adjusting to Braavos makes her days more exhausting, too, making sleep more important. She had never been a healthy woman, and now recent events are finally taking their toll on her.

Closing her eyes, she attempts to clear her thoughts, though the urge to look at the window grows stronger. It does not help at all. Ultimately, she gives in and glances up, hoping it will be enough to  _ finally _ let her sleep.

A crow is perched on the open windowsill, watching her with crimson eyes. A jolt of terror and a bit of curiosity courses through her body as she gazes back, clutching her blanket tightly. She remembers seeing the same creature, back in Dragonstone. A dream had led her to the dragon eggs, then. What will the crow bring her tonight?

“You are one strange  _ creature, _ ” she says, trying to keep her tone conversational. “Did you follow us all the way here?”

The crow opens its mouth, squawking loudly.  _ “A thousand eyes and one, _ ” it seems to say.

Elia freezes. She knows enough of Westeros’ history for those words to be familiar. Every highborn child who paid enough attention to their lessons have heard of Brynden Rivers and the strangest tales associated with him. While a small part of the Dornish Princess may have believed that he had some form of magic — blood of the dragon, indeed — she knew that the man who had called himself Bloodraven had disappeared decades ago.

It was long before Elia was born, and besides, no one can leave for over a hundred years. Perhaps she’s just tired, and has already fallen asleep. Birds don’t speak — clearly, this is just a particularly detailed dream.

“Will you please let me sleep?” This is a dream, and yet there she is, speaking as politely as ever. A Martell does not forget her manners, even in the strangest circumstances.

Squawking yet again, the crow flaps its wings and flies into the room, landing at the foot of her simple wooden bed. It affixes her with its strange red gaze that seems to slowly grow brighter and brighter until it swallows her whole.

_ “You must see!” _

_ She watches two silver-haired men — one tall and well-built, with short hair, and another short but gangly, with shoulder-length hair — blades clashing in the fierce orange light of the setting sun. The taller man knocks his shorter foe to the ground with a loud cry. The smothering smell of smoke fills the air/ _

_ “What have you done?” _

_ A rain of black feathers obscure her vision. When they fall off, she catches a glimpse of a wall of ice so high that she can barely see the top. The short Targaryen boy from before  _ —  _ what else could he be?  _ —  _ limps towards an entrance manned by five men clad in black, just like him. An auburn-haired boy carried by a giant of a man march right behind. _

_ “They must see with a thousand eyes and one. Ice and fire.” _

_ A flock of crows descend, flying around Elia, creating a blast of wind that sends her reeling. When they leave, Elia is left standing in a dimly-lit void of a room, alone and cold. _

_ “The children must live.” _

_ Before her stands a silver-haired woman, youthful and lovely, with a heart-shaped face. A silver necklace of star sapphires and emeralds hang from her neck, casting faint glimmers despite the semi-darkness they’re in. Elia’s gaze strays down to the woman’s cloth-of-silver dress, and the huge bloodstain spreading on her chest. _

_ “Let my sacrifice not be in vain.” _

When Elia wakes, her entire body is drenched in sweat, despite the cold. The crow is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it for Elia's segment. For now. I know many of you will be put off by the dreams and prophecies going around since the first part, so I'll say it here: I'm writing to dump ideas and practice my writing skills, not to cater to others' tastes and headcanons.
> 
> If you're still sticking with me from here on, I truly appreciate the support, nevertheless. I hope that I can entertain with my writing, at least, especially in these troubled times.
> 
> If you're here just to spread hate and negativity, or be outright hurtful, I am reminding you that you have no place here in my fics. The comments section will remain a safe space. If these fics are not your cup of tea, just get up and go. No one's obligating you to read. Curate your own fandom experience.
> 
> On a lighter note, we'll be having something different for the next fic in this series: we'll be having both Catelyn and Rhaella's POVs.


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